The Return Of Caroline

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THE RETURN
OF CAROLINE

FLORENCE

MOR.SE

KINGSLEY

WILLIAM CHARVAT
American Fiction Collection

The Ohio State University Libraries

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THE RETURN
OF CAROLINE

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I’ve — come to help you, Caroline, he stammered.

[See page

THE RETURN
OF CAROLINE

Copyright, 1909

By The American Home Monthly

Copyright, 1911

By FUNK & WAGNALLS COMPANY
Printed in the United States of America
Published April, 1911

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TO THE

SWEET GIRL GRADUATE

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THE

RETURN OF CAROLINE

I

N athan beale drew up

his shining democrat wagon
beside the platform of the
Innisfield railway station, his span
of big bays arching their sleek
necks nervously as they eyed a
hissing locomotive on the siding.

“ Hello, Nate! ” called the station-
master, pausing in his occupation
of loading divers trunks and boxes
onto a wobbly truck; “expectin’ any
freight this eve?”

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The young man in the wagon
merely shook his head; he was ap¬
parently engrossed in the task of
soothing his excited horses.

“ Say, Nathan! Guess you’ll have
your han’s a leetle more’n full with
that off colt o’ yourn when the
’xpress pulls in,” drawled a long,
lank, elderly man in blue overalls,
who lounged idly against an iron
pillar, his hands stuffed deep in his
pockets. “Ye don’t want t’ push
’em too hard first thing; ef ye do,
they’ll alius be scart of cars, an’
there ain’t a meaner trick in a span.
One skeery hoss’ll keep his mate
on the dance.”

“Guess you’re right, Sile,” re-

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of Caroline

plied the young man, and he
wheeled his horses and drove away.
He came back presently and stood
quietly beside the man in blue jeans.

“Train’s twenty-six minutes
late,” vouchsafed that individual
presently. And after a lengthen¬
ing pause, “What’d ye do with
them colts o’yourn, Nathan?”

“ Took ’em up to the hotel shed,”
replied the other laconically.

“Hum! ’xpectin’ anybody on
the train?”

“ Yes.”

“ Who was you ’xpectin, ? ”

Nathan Beale blushed boyishly.
“Mr. Tate asked me to bring his
daughter home,” he said stiffly.

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“You don’t say so! So Car’line’s
cornin’ home f’om boardin’ school,
is she ? ”

The old man wagged his head
gravely.

“ She’s be’n off quite a spell
gittin’ an edication. What’s the
matter with her folks not meetin’
her—heh ? ”

“ Why, nothing that I know of;
one of the horses was lame. I
was coming to the village anyhow,
so I—”

“Oh, g’long, Nate! Ye don’t
need to ’pologize t’ me. Car’line’s
a mighty nice, purty little gal—ef
she ain’t got too sot up by her
schoolin’. Las’ time she was home

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she passed me on the street a
couple o’ times without seem’ me—
looked right over m’ head, I guess
—me ’at had knowed her since
she was a baby! But I didn’t
lay it up agin her. She’s somepin’
like that off colt o’ yourn, Nate,
kind o’ triflin’ b’ spells, but sound
an’ full o’ grit. She’ll quiet down
all right once she gits into double
harness.”

The last words of the village
wiseacre were lost on Nathan
Beale amid the rush and roar of
the incoming train.

Caroline Tate was the last to
descend the steps of the car. She
was a tall girl, with dazzling blue

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eyes under dark lashes, and the
rich coloring of June roses. She
did not appear to see Nathan
Beale’s outstretched hand as she
stept lightly to the platform,
and he spoke to her in the im¬
perious fashion of a very young
man. “Let me take your bag, Car¬
oline; I—”

“Just a minute, Nathan; I must
say good-by to the girls.” Laugh¬
ing faces crowded the car window.

“Good-by, Carol, dear! Don’t
forget to write! And don’t for¬
get— Oh, Carol! come here to
the window, quick! I want to ask
you something before the train
starts! ”

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of Caroline

A girl with pink cheeks and a
saucy, tip-tilted nose leaned far out
of the window and whispered her
question with a mischievous glance
at the young farmer, who had pos-
sest himself of the luggage, and
was now waiting with obvious im¬
patience.

Caroline Tate tossed her hand¬
some head, while a deep flush dyed
her cheeks. “Don’t be absurd,
Margot!” she murmured. “It’s
only dad’s hired man.”

She sprang back as the train
began to move and waved her
hand. Nathan Beale swept off his
straw hat with a stiff bow, and the
laughing faces disappeared in a

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blur of waving handkerchiefs and
fluttering ribbons.

“ Well, Caroline, are you
ready ? ”

The girl turned quickly at the
sound of his carefully controlled
voice. “ Oh!—Nathan! Didn’t
father come to meet me ? Are any
of them sick?”

He met her eyes steadily. “ No;
they are all well. One of the gray
horses is lame, that’s all; and I—
I thought you would be glad to
see me, Caroline. You—said you
would, in your letter.”

“Of course, I’m glad, Nathan.
But I was disappointed just for a
minute not to see daddy. It fright-
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of Caroline

ened me, really.” She smiled bril¬
liantly into his troubled face. She
was thinking that his clothes were
absurdly shabby and his straw hat
entirely out of style.

“ I’ll see about your trunk, and
then go after the colts,” he said,
biting his lip, which threatened to
betray his sore disappointment in
this home-coming, to which he had
looked forward for more weeks
than he cared to remember.

She glanced about her with the
slow widening of her blue eyes
which he remembered so well.

“Oh—the colts. Yes; I remem¬
ber you told me you were breaking
them to harness,”

is

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When he came back driving his
big bays with a careful hand he
found her waiting for him with
heightened color. “That absurd
old person in blue jeans has been
talking to me,” she explained
airily, as they rattled away.

“You mean Silas Kinney, I
suppose ?”

He glanced somewhat grimly at
her richly-colored face under its
drooping hat-brim.

“ Yes; he hoped that I hadn’t
grown too ‘ pernikity ’ since I’d
been away at school. Wasn’t that
too funny? I laughed right out; I
couldn’t help it. He’s a real char¬
acter, isn’t he? Just like the
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of Caroline

quaint persons one reads about in
novels.”

She examined the stern young
profile which Beale had turned
toward her, wondering with grow¬
ing trepidation whether he had
heard her reply to Margot Sylves¬
ter’s question. He was gazing
steadily at the strong flanks of his
horses as they toiled up a steep
incline.

“ Did you notice the girl who
leaned out of the car window to
speak to me?” she asked after a
short silence. “ She’s the very
prettiest girl at Mapledale—per¬
fectly sweet, I think.”

He spoke strongly to his horses

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before he turned his head.

“ I didn’t notice her,” he said.
“ I was looking at you, Caroline.”

Something in his low voice made
her heart beat uncomfortably fast.

“That was awfully nice of you,
I’m sure,” she said gaily. “ Oh,
do see that scarlet tanager! Right
in that maple—see? Now he’s
gone. Oh, what a beauty! ”

His eyes followed the flutterings
of her slim hands. “ I’ve been
thinking about you mostly all win¬
ter,” he went on slowly. “And
about what I meant to say to you
when you came home. I’ve paid
the last cent on my farm, Caroline,
and I’ve got money enough saved
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to fix the house up—give it a new
coat of paint outside, and paper
and paint inside.”

“ You must have worked awfully
hard,” she murmured. “Oh, I
do believe I see some pink azaleas
back in the woods! Please stop
the horses, Nathan; I must have
some! ”

She came back presently, her
hands crowded with rose-colored
bloom. “Now, drive fast, please;
I’m in such a hurry to get home,
and besides, I want to see the colts
trot.” Her brilliant eyes avoided
his as she settled herself at his
side. “ Oh, Pm so glad to get
home!”

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He attempted no reply to her
exuberant exclamation. His keen
if somewhat slow perceptions had
by this time apprized him of the
fact that the present was not the
most auspicious time in which to
pursue his wooing. He contented
himself with an occasional quiet
glance at her sparkling face as he
drove the colts briskly along the
mile of level road which brought
them at last in sight of the Tate
farmhouse, with its green shut¬
tered windows and white walls
gleaming through masses of trees
and shrubbery.

“ There it is! The dear old
place!” trilled the girl excitedly.
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“ There’s mother coming down
to the gate, and dad, and old
Rover, wagging his tail and bark¬
ing for joy! Let me out quick,
Nathan!”

He lingered wistfully, while the
girl flung herself into the arms
outstretched to receive her. She
did not even glance in his direction
while her father helped to lower
the heavy trunk from the back of
the wagon, and she checked her
mother’s hospitable invitation with
a petulant word and gesture.

“ I don’t want to see anybody
except you and dad to-night. I’m
tired; and besides, I’ye got to un¬
pack. My dresses will be a sight;

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I simply stuffed everything into
the trunk the last minute.”

Mrs. Tate’s kind, middle-aged
face betrayed her growing bewil¬
derment as she helped her daugh¬
ter arrange her girlish belongings
in the great southeast chamber
which had been freshly papered
and painted in honor of her final
home-coming.

“ It was awfully sweet of you to
have it done, mother, dear; but if
you had asked me, I should have
chosen something in blue and
white, instead of these old-fash¬
ioned wreaths. Pink is so common,
and it fades so. Oh—and, mother,
did you get my letter about the
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furniture? I see you have my old
black walnut set in here.”

“ I thought it far handsomer
than those old pieces, Carrie. It’s
perfectly good, and you know, the
veneer is chipped off that bureau
of your grandmother’s.”

“It can be repaired,” the girl
said decidedly. “There is a place
in Boston where all that sort of
work is done beautifully. I went
there with one of the girls last
week. I’m simply determined to
have this room in blue and white
and old mahogany. It will be too
sweet and stylish for anything.
I’m going to ask Nathan if he’ll
sell me that old sofa out of his

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parlor; and I’d love that carved
four-poster of Aunt Julia’s. Don’t
you think you could coax it away
from her, mother ? I want to have
it curtained with blue-and-white
chintz—to match the walls, you
know; and with little straight cur¬
tains of the chintz at the windows
and dotted muslin trimmed with
little balls looped back, it will be
simply dear!”

“But, Carrie—”

The girl whirled about and
caught her mother in the strong
embrace of her round, white arms.

“If you love me, mother, dear,
please don’t call me Carrie. If you
knew how I hated it! Call me
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of Caroline

Carolyn or Carol; it’s ever so
much prettier. Now, confess;
don’t you like it better?”

“ Why, I don’t know. I—I’ve
always called you Carrie since you
were a baby, and—”

“Well, you’ll have to stop doing
it now,” laughed the girl; “I shall
simply insist upon it.”

Mrs. Tate sighed vaguely as she
shook out the folds of a pale blue
muslin gown and the framed pic¬
ture of a young girl fell to the
floor. Caroline pounced upon it
with a little shriek of dismay.

“My, how careless of me,” she
cried; “I oughtn’t to have put it
between the folds of that dress.

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See, mother, it’s Margot Sylvester.
Isn’t she the dearest, sweetest
thing you ever saw ? I’m going to
have her here for a long visit after
my room is fixt as I want it.
She’s simply a dandy girl, and as
stylish as can be. You ought to
see her clothes, mother. She has
the sweetest lingerie, all hand-
embroidered, and all her dresses
are lined with silk. Really, I
haven’t a thing when it comes to
clothes.”

“ Well, dear, I’ve engaged Celia
Rand to—■”

“ Oh, Celia Rand! I suppose
she perpetrated that green dress
you sent me. Do you know, I

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of Caroline

thought I should die when I tried
it on. The girls nearly killed
themselves trying not to laugh.”

“Why, Carrie, dear, what—”

“There! What did I tell you?
You promised you wouldn’t, you
know.”

Then, as her mother stared in
open-eyed dismay, the girl burst
into a ringing laugh.

“You called me Carrie again,
and you know, dear, I really can’t
allow it.”

Mrs. Tate patted her daughter’s
slim shoulders with anxious affec¬
tion. “I’ll try real hard to re¬
member, dearie,” she said. “ Now
I must go down and get tea.”

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She paused at the door to add,
“ You’ll find a surprize waiting for
you in the parlor; and I do hope
it’ll be just what you like. If—if it
shouldn’t be—exactly, dear, don’t
say so right out to father. He’s
set his heart on pleasing you.”

Caroline was tying a bit of pale
blue velvet ribbon about the lace
collar of her thin gown. She
looked up brightly to meet her
mother’s anxious eyes. “ Don’t
worry, mother, dear; I’ll be sure
to say the right thing to dad, what¬
ever the poor dear has bought.”

She leaned forward to eye her
rosy reflection in the glass while
she fluffed out the bright waves of

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of Caroline

hair about her face. Then she
smiled at the bewitching person
in the mirror.

“Poor old Nathan,” she mur¬
mured, “ I wonder if he’ll venture
to come over to see me to-night.
I’m sure I hope he won’t.”

She added a thin gold chain
holding an amethyst heart, and
slipt a bangle or two into place,
turning slowly from side to side as
she pulled her ribbon girdle more
firmly down in front and fastened
it with a pearl-headed pin.

Mr. Tate was waiting beside the
closed door of the parlor when at
last the girl fluttered down the
stairs, a vision of girlish prettiness

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in her fresh muslin and pale-hued
ribbons.

“Well, daughter,” was his
greeting, “you look like you was
drest up for a party; guess you
and me’ll have to have one to cele¬
brate.” He laughed happily, rub¬
bing his big hands over his partly
bald head, and wrinkling his
weather-beaten face into kindly
creases. “Just you shut your eyes,
little girl, while I lead you int’ the
parlor. Me and mother—we’ve
ben planning a little surprize,
an’—”

“Oh, dad!”

There was no mistaking the
girl’s cry of rapturous surprize as
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of Caroline

she caught sight of the shining
new piano which had replaced the
old cabinet organ between the win¬
dows of the rather stiffly arranged
best room.

“Well, what’s the name of it?”
demanded Mr. Tate, with a great
burst of joyous laughter. “What’s
it good for? That’s what I’ve
been wondering ever since it’s been
set there—a matter of two weeks
ago, I sh’d say. I’ll bet you won’t
find out in a month o’ Sundays.”

The girl threw her arms about
his neck and prest her fresh,
,pink cheek against his rough,
brown one.

“You dear old darling dad,”

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she murmured, “to buy me that
lovely piano.” She settled herself
airily on the stool and dashed into
a lively tune, while the farmer
stood watching her twinkling fin¬
gers with huge content.

“ Say!” he whispered to his wife,
“ ain’t that great! I’d rather have
it than fifty head of cattle. I don’t
know how you feel, ma!”

Mrs. Tate wiped her kind, tired
eyes.

“The biscuits are just nicely
done,” she said quietly, “an’ Car¬
rie must be hungry. Come, dearie,
supper’s waiting. We’ll have all
the music we want after.”

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of Caroline

N athan beale did not go

to see Caroline Tate that
evening. Instead, he spent
a rather sad and lonely hour on his
own side porch, looking off over
his well-tilled farm, which seemed
somehow to have shrunken into
insignificance since morning.

His mother came out after she
had washed the supper dishes, and
made no effort to conceal her.sur¬
prize at finding him there.

“ I thought you had gone over to
Tate’s long ago,” she said.

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She was a tall, spare woman,
with the steady blue eyes and
abundant brown hair which were
repeated in the person of her son.
She sat down at his side and gazed
at him with that species of mater¬
nal anxiety in her eyes which is
bound to irritate a sensitive man.

“Didn’t Caroline invite you to
call, Nate?” she asked in a low
voice.

“ No, mother; she didn’t. She
was so taken up with getting home
she didn’t think about anything
else, I guess.” He strove to speak,
easily, and in further token of his
unconcern, tilted his chair against
the side of the house and yawned.

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of Caroline

“It’s warm to-night, isn’t it?
Not a bit of breeze stirring. I hope
we’ll get a shower before morning;
the corn needs it bad.”

“Seems to me I should have
gone over anyway, if I’d been you,
Nathan,” his mother said earnestly.
“Just as like as not, they expected
you would. They’ve got her a new
piano.”

“Yes; I know it.”

“And they do say she plays
beautifully.”

Her son offered no further com¬
ment, and after a short silence
Mrs. Beale arose. “I’ve got to set
bread,” she remarked. “I just
came out to get a breath of air.

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You might go over yet, if you had
a mind to. It isn’t late.”

He shook his head rather impa¬
tiently. “ It’s too late to go over
there to-night,” he said shortly.
“Anyhow, there’s no particular
hurry that I know of.”

His mother eyed him search-
ingly. “ I do hope,” she said,
“that Caroline hasn’t come home
with the notion that she’s a little
too good for the folks around here.
I don’t believe in sending girls
away to fashionable boarding-
schools, myself. It ’most always
spoils ’em completely.”

The young man lowered his
chair to the floor with a thud. “ I
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of Caroline

wish you wouldn’t talk that way,
mother,” he said irritably. “ Caro¬
line isn’t spoiled, I can tell you that
much. Nothing could spoil her.”

“ Something’s the matter,”
mused Mrs. Beale, as she went
into the house. “ He can’t deceive
me. Oh, I do hope everything’ll be
all right betwixt them. I’m afraid
he’s got his heart set on her.”

When Nathan came into the
house at nine o’clock, he found his
mother placidly reading her Bible,
in mute token that the toils and
cares of the day were over. The
two exchanged a brief good-night,
and the young man tramped off
to bed.

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After all, nothing really decisive
had happened—nothing at all, he
told himself, as he lay wide-eyed
in the darkness. He determined
to call upon Caroline the following
evening. She would be rested
from her journey; and then—. His
tired mind reviewed once more the
series of blissful pictures he had
cherished during the long, toilsome
months which had passed. The
waking visions merged at length
into confused dreams, wherein
Caroline was running away from
him as if on the wings of the wind,
her hands filled with pink flowers
and her blue eyes brimming with
teasing laughter. He overtook her
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of Caroline

at last, and awoke in the gray
dawn with a cry of triumph.

After supper that night he
drest himself carefully in his
best clothes and drove his colts
over to the Tate farm, only to find
Caroline gone.

“Carrie coaxed her pa to take
her over to Farmsley this after¬
noon to see my sister, Julia Pease,”
explained Mrs. Tate. “ You re¬
member her, I guess, don’t you,
Nathan? She’s my half-sister on
my father’s side, an’ her mother
left her some pieces of old furni¬
ture. Carrie’s just crazy over old
things like that, an’ finally I told
her she might say to Sister Julia

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that I’d trade the whole black wal¬
nut set for the old mahogany bed
and table Caroline wants. I don’t
know whether she’ll get ’em or not.
She certainly won’t if Julia takes a
notion against it. She’s dreadful
notional, Julia Pease is. I told
Carrie to be careful not to rile her
up about anything, an’ to be sure
an’ pat her dog. Julia’s got the
homeliest, worst-tempered dog you
ever set eyes on; but it’s as much
as your life is worth to say a word
against him.”

Mrs. Tate’s voice struck Nathan
as being anxiously apologetic. She
did not ask him to put his horses
in the barn.

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of Caroline

“ I’m ’fraid they won’t be back
very early,” she told him. “ Julia’ll
be sure to keep them to tea, an’
it’s quite a drive home.”

Something—perhaps it was sym¬
pathy—in her kind, anxious face
angered the young man. “ I won’t
wait,” he said. “Tell Caroline I
called.”

“Yes; I’ll be sure an’ tell her.
You’ll come again soon; won’t you
Nathan ? ”

He turned to look at her, with
his foot on the step of his buggy.

“ Yes,” he said firmly; “ I’ll come
to-morrow night. Tell Caroline,
will you?”

“Y-yes, Nathan; certainly, I’ll

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tell her. But—Nathan, I—you

see—”

“Well?” His tone was impa¬
tient.

“ I don’t know but what I ought
to tell you there’s a young man
from Boston coming to call on
Carrie to-morrow. I guess likely
he’ll stay to tea. He’s a brother of
one of her friends at Mapledale—a
Miss Sylvester; you’ve heard Car¬
rie speak of her, I guess. She
wrote to Carrie to say he was
coming. It seems the arrange¬
ment was made before Carrie
came home. I—we don’t know
him, an’—”

“ Oh, I won’t come, if that’s the
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of Caroline

case.” He laughed harshly. “ I’ve
no notion of—intruding. I’ll come
over some time next week—if there
is nothing doing then.”

Mrs. Tate approached a step
nearer and laid her motherly hand
upon his arm. “Come Sunday,
Nathan,” she said earnestly.
“Come and stay to supper, an’
take Carrie down to the village to
church if it’s pleasant. She’ll like
the ride, an’—”

“Well, I don’t know,” he an¬
swered stiffly. “Maybe I’d better
find out first whether Caroline—”

“You do as I say, Nathan. An’
—Nathan, don’t you mind if Car¬
rie— She’s got some little ways

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—from boarding-school, I guess.
But they’ll wear off after a while.
Land! I don’t mind.”

“ You mean Caroline’s changed,
Mrs. Tate. Yes; I could see it the
day she came home. She—was
ashamed of me in my last sum¬
mer’s suit. I suppose I was a cad
to notice it, but—”

“I know, Nathan; I understand.
But I want you should feel that
her father an’ I—that ,we think
most everything of you an’ your
folks, an’ always have. An’ I guess
Carrie’ll be different after she’s
been home for a spell. If you’ll
just have a little patience, an’ not
expect too much—just at first.”

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of Caroline

Could Nathan Beale have acted
upon Mrs. Tate’s well-meant ad¬
vice things might have turned out
differently with him. But, as a
matter of fact, after being tried
almost past endurance at sight of
Caroline driving past his house
with a smartly-drest young man
on Saturday, he called at the Tate
farmhouse on Sunday evening
prepared, as he told himself, to
settle matters one way or another.

Caroline, looking bewitchingly
pretty in a filmy white gown gar¬
nished with pale blue ribbons,
laughed outright at sight of his
stern young face.

“ One would suppose you’d come

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to a funeral,” she said mockingly.

“I want to drive you down to
church,” he blurted out, in total
forgetfulness of his carefully pre¬
pared sentences.

The girl shook her head. ** I’ve
been to church once to-day,” she
informed him; “ and to tell you the
truth, I couldn’t possibly endure
it to hear that man preach twice
in one day. He bores me to tears.”

“I—wanted to talk with you,

Caroline. I haven’t had a chance

since vou came home.”

*

She lifted her eyebrows and
moved her slim shoulders gently.

“ You know what you said to
me a long time ago, Caroline?”
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of Caroline

His voice sank to a hoarse whis¬
per; little beads of perspiration
started out on his forehead.

She looked at him coolly from
under her lowered lashes. “ I have
no doubt that I said a number of
absurd things,” she murmured,
dropping her words disdainfully—
“I’m sure I don’t care to remem¬
ber all that I said.”

“Well, I do. You said that
when you had finished school, and
I had my farm paid for, that you
—that we—”

He floundered helplessly under
the amused light in her eyes.

“Did you suppose I really meant
it?” she laughed. A cruel laugh,
he thought.

47

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I

The Return

“You did mean it, Caroline.”
He set his teeth hard, his face
glowing with love and fury. “I’ve
done my part, and now you—”

She was looking at him with a
pretty, serious air of sympathy
and concern. “ But, Nathan,” she
protested, “you can’t think how
absurdly you are talking. That
was ages ago, when we were both
children. We’re grown up now”—
she preened herself slightly—“ and
everything is changed.”

He leaned forward, his face
white under his tan. “Then you
don’t—like me any more. Is that
what you mean, Caroline?”

She turned away from him

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of Caroline

petulantly. “I wish you wouldn’t
be tiresome, Nathan,” she said.
“ Of course, I’d like you well
enough if you’d be jolly and nice,
the way you used to be. But I
hate to be bored, and I won’t be—
by you. So there! ”

He stumbled blindly to his feet.
“I heard you tell that Sylvester
girl that I was your father’s hired
man,” he said bitterly. “I forgave
you the lie because I loved you.
But now, I tell you that I’ll never
speak to you again until you’re
sorry for it, and tell me so.”

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The Return

III

I T might have comforted the un¬
happy lover somewhat could he
have known that Caroline Tate
cried herself to sleep that night.
When she went back to school at
Christmas time she had supposed
herself very much in love with
Nathan Beale, and she had con¬
fided her feelings to Margot Syl¬
vester, describing in the course of
uncounted conversations her lover’s
handsome face, his distinguished
manners and his uncommon attain¬
ments in terms which would have
50

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of Caroline

thoroughly astonished the young
man himself. When her eyes first
lighted upon Nathan (in his sec¬
ond-best suit) waiting for her on
the platform of the Innisfield sta¬
tion, the hero of her dreams sud¬
denly dissolved into thin air, and
she knew with a dreadful cer¬
tainty that he had never existed
outside the realm of her own im¬
agination. It was at this psycho¬
logical instant that Margot Syl¬
vester had asked her mischievous
question, “Isn’t that Mr. Beale?”
and the foolish denial, which poor
Nathan had overheard, had sprung
to her lips.

“If he had only had on his new

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straw hat!” she sobbed indignantly
as she buried her face in her tear-
wet pillow.

Alas! What tragedies are
linked to the fleeting fashion of a
garment, or the trivial turn of a
hat-brim! Caroline Tate was not
aware that she had thrust away
from her the most valuable gift
life had to offer. She only knew
that existence had become unac¬
countably dull and dreary as the
months passed. She saw Nathan
occasionally at church, or driving
his big bays past the house at a
spanking gait. He had bought
new, silver-plated harness for them
and a new, shining side-bar buggy.

52

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of Caroline

Once in late autumn, while Caro¬
line was riding decorously behind
her father’s sober grays, he had
dashed past with a handsome,
showily-dressed girl at his side.

“ Whew! ” her father had ex¬
claimed, “Nathan appears to be
speeding his colts some! Queer
he didn’t see us. That girl must
be his second cousin, Charlotte
Little. I heard she was visiting
his mother.”

He looked at his daughter with
a slow, speculative gleam of curi¬
osity in his eyes. “I declare, I
haven’t seen Nathan at our house
much of late. You haven’t been
quarreling with him, have you?”

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The Return

“ No, father,” she hesitated, “but
I—don’t like him very well, and
I guess he—knows it.”

“ Don’t like him—don’t like Na¬
than Beale! You can’t make me
believe that, Carrie. Course, you
like him! You’ve known him since
you was knee-high to a grass¬
hopper. He’s a mighty nice, hon¬
est fellow; I don’t know a nicer
anywhere in these parts, an’ he’s
enterprising, too, an’ bound to get
along in the world. I heard yes¬
terday that he’d bought the Reyn¬
olds farm, with a part of their
blooded stock. Don’t you go to
being foolish, Carrie.”

The girl’s blue eyes were obsti-

54

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of Caroline

nately turned away; but she
laughed, a thought too shrilly.

“ Don’t you worry about me,
father, dear,” was all she said.

In January, when the snow lay
deepest around the isolated farm¬
house, and the lengthening morn¬
ings and evenings gleamed dully
through thickly-frosted panes, Mrs.
Tate fell suddenly ill.

“A sharp touch of grippe and
generally played out,” was the old
doctor’s verdict. “A good thing
you’re strong and hearty, Car’line;
you’ll find plenty to keep you busy
for a while.”

“I’m afraid Carrie’ll spoil her
pretty hands,” fretted Mrs. Tate in

55

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The Return

her husband’s ear. “ I haven’t let
her put them into dish-water since
‘she came home, on account of her
piano-playing.”

“Well, mother; I’ve tried to get
somebody to help in the kitchen,
but I can’t seem to get nobody for
love nor money.”

Her father’s awkward mascu¬
line efforts to spare her half
amused, half angered the girl.

“ If you’ll keep the wood-box and
the water-pail full, as you do for
mother, I can do the rest,” she
told him.

“Your ma don’t want you
should spoil your hands,” he said
clumsily.

56

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of Caroline

The girl shrugged her slim
shoulders. “ I don’t care about
my hands,” she murmured, hiding
her face in the cupboard. “Why
should I? Don’t you worry, dad;
I’ll do the best I can.”

And the sick woman above
stairs, having perforce let go her
anxious hold upon the things of life,
seemed wandering in a strange,
dim borderland, wherein she stum¬
bled in a weak delirium through
the long days and nights.

“Is my mother going to die?”
Caroline asked with white lips, as
the old doctor drew on his fur
gloves in the kitchen, preparatory
to facing the furious storm of

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snow and sleet which howled about
the lonely house. “It will be my
fault if she does. I haven’t cared
how tired she got. I’ve let her
sweep my room and mend my
clothes, and lately I’ve slept over
breakfast time because it was cold
and I hated to get up.”

The doctor looked compassion¬
ately into the girl’s tragic eyes.
“I guess she’ll pull through this
time,” he said gruffly; “you must
keep up her food and medicine,
tho, and your own courage. I’ll
send you help if I can find it high
or low.”

He shook his wise old head as he
unhitched his horse and drove
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of Caroline

slowly away through the gather¬
ing drift. Nathan Beale was
stamping the snow off his big
boots before his own door as the
physician drove past.

“ Hello, doctor,” he shouted.
“Who’s sick up this way?”

Doctor Avery pulled up his
horse. “Come out here, Nathan,”
he said peremptorily. Then, as
the young man obeyed, “You
aren’t much of a Good Samaritan,
my friend,” he grumbled. “ Guess
your nearest neighbor might die
and be buried for all of you.”

Nathan Beale changed color
with enlightening suddenness.

“Is it—Caroline?” he demand¬
ed, in a shaken voice.

59

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The Return

“No, young man; it isn’t Caro¬
line,” replied the doctor, putting
two and two together in the good
old fashion, and arriving at a
correct conclusion. “ It’s her
mother. But Caroline needs some¬
body to stand by, if a girl ever
did. She’s got everything to do,
and she’s doing it, too, right up to
the mark. I never saw a better
nurse. But her father’s about as
much use as a man generally is—
in a sick-room or a kitchen. I
wonder if somebody from your
house couldn’t go over for the
night? ”

“ Somebody will,” said Nathan
Beale strongly. And the old doc-

Co

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C Dogk

of Caroline

tor drove on, with a pleasant
warmth about his heart.

At nightfall the sick woman un¬
expectedly rallied, only to sink
into profounder depths of weak¬
ness where her hoarse breathing
was the only sound that broke
the stillness of the room. Her
husband, completely overcome with
fear and grief, crouched low in a
chair by the bedside.

“I’m ’fraid she’s going, daugh¬
ter,” he quavered. “An’ we can’t
do nothin’ to help!”

“Hush, father,” whispered the
girl, “keep hold of her hand and
pray—pray hard, while I heat
some milk. We mustn’t let her die!”

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She crept noiselessly down the
stair and roused the dull fire.
“Oh, God!” she prayed passion¬
ately, “forgive me for being self¬
ish, and let my mother live!”

The wind wailed down the old
chimney with a voice of despair,
and the ghostly fingers of the sleet
beat against the uncurtained win¬
dows. Caroline lifted her tear-
blurred eyes from a blind contem¬
plation of the saucepan filled with
milk. Someone was knocking at
the door. She opened it upon the
tall figure of a man blown white
with drift.

“I’ve come to help you, Caro¬
line,” he stammered, suddenly re-

62

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of Caroline

membering his last hard words to
her in the amazed light of her
eyes. “ I’ll—do anything you
say.”

The warm red had surged up
into the girl’s face at sight of him,
tall, strong and masterful. “ Father
hasn’t fed the stock,” she said at
last, “and I’ve just burned the
last stick of wood.”

His tasks done, he followed her
up the stairs. Mrs. Tate was
sleeping, and her husband, worn
out with his long vigils, slept, too,
his gray head dropt forward upon
his breast.

The girl motioned Nathan to a
chair, and together they watched

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The Return

the wasted figure in its deathlike
repose through the waning hours
of the night.

At daybreak the fluttering lids
lifted. “Oh, Carrie,” murmured
the weak voice, “ I’m so—’fraid—
you’re spoiling — your — pretty
hands!”

“Never mind, dear, just swal¬
low this,” whispered the girl, her
face shining with a sudden radi¬
ance of hope.

It was Nathan’s strong arm
which supported the invalid while
she drank eagerly from the cup
her daughter held to her lips.
She lifted her eyes to his with full
recognition. “You—haven’t been
64

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of Caroline

to—see us—for a—long—time,
Nathan/' She syllabled faintly.
“ Come—Sunday night—to sup¬
per.”

As he laid her down to life-
renewing slumber his eyes met
Caroline’s.

“Can you forgive me,Nathan?”
she murmured. “ I—I’ve been
wanting to ask you for a long
time.”

He reached out his hand to her
across the bed. She laid hers in
it, thankfully, solemnly, while the
joy in their young hearts seemed
to shed a rosy light as of return¬
ing health upon the sleeping face
of Caroline’s mother.

65

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THE

HOUR-GLASS

STORIES

THE SANDALS

By Rev. Zelotes Gkenell. A beautiful little idyl
of sacred story dealing with the sandals of Christ.

THE COURTSHIP OF SWEET
ANNE PAGE

By Ellen V. Talbot. A brisk little love story
incidental to “The Merry Wives of Windsor,’* full
of fun and frolic, and telling of the Courtship of
Sweet Anne Page by three rival lovers chosen by
her father, her mother, and herself.

THE TRANSFIGURATION' OF
MISS PHILURA

By Florence Morse Kingsley. This clever story is
based on the theory that every physical need and every
desire of the human heart can be claimed and received
from the “ Encircling Good ** by the true believer.

THE HERR DOCTOR

By Robert MacDonald. A novelette of artistic
literary merit, narrating the varied experiences of
an American girl in her effort toward capturing a
titled husband.

ESARHADDON

By Count Leo Tolstoy. Three allegorical stories
illustrating Tolstoy’s theories of non-resistance, and
tne essential unity of all forms of life.

Small /amt, Dainty Cloth Binding, Illustrated.

40 cents each

FUNK & WAGNALLS COMPANY, Pubs.

NEW YORK and LONDON

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THE

HOUR-GLASS

STORIES

THE CZAR’S GIFT

By William Ordway Partridge. How freedom
was obtained for an exiled brother.

THE EMANCIPATION OF
MISS SUSANA

An entrancing love story that ends in a most
romantic marriage.

THE OLD DARNMAN

By Charles L. Goodell, D. D. A character known
to many a New England boy and girl, in which the
“ lost bride ** is the occasion for a lifelong search
from door to door.

BALM IN GILEAD

By Florence Morse Kingsley. A very touching
story of a mother's grief over th% loss of her child of
tender years, and her search for comfort, which she
finds at last in her husband’s loyal Christian faith.

MISERERE

By Mabel Wagnalls. The romantic story of a
sweet voice that thrilled great audiences in operatic
Paris, Berlin, etc.

PARSIFAL

By H. R. Haweis. An intimate study of the great
operatic masterpiece.

THE TROUBLE WOMAN

By Clara Morris. A pathetic little story full of
heart interest.

Small l2mo y Dainty Chth Binding , IllustraUd.

40 ctntt tach

FUNK fcf WAGNALLS COMPANY, Pubs.

NEW YORK AND LONDON

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